Part 28 (1/2)
General Bruce told me a good campaign story of Senator James W. Nye, of Nevada. Nye was a prominent lawyer of western New York, and the most eloquent and witty member of the bar of that section, and also the most popular campaign speaker. He moved to Nevada and so impressed the people of that young State that he was elected United States senator. In the Senate he became a notable figure.
Nye and General Bruce were sent by the national committee to canva.s.s New England. Nye had become senatorial in his oratory, with much more dignity and elevation of style than before. He began his first speech at Bridgeport, Conn., in this way: ”Fellow citizens, I have come three thousand miles from my mountain home, three thousand feet above the level of the sea, to discuss with you these vital questions for the safety of our republic.” The next night, at New Haven, he said: ”I have come from my mountain home, five thousand feet above the level of the sea, to discuss with you these vital questions of the safety of our republic.”
Bruce interrupted him, saying: ”Why, senator, it was only three thousand feet last night.” Nye turned savagely on Bruce: ”Bruce, you go to the devil!” Resuming with the audience, he remarked very impressively: ”As I was saying, fellow citizens, I have come from my mountain home, ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, to, etc.”
A story which ill.u.s.trates and enforces the argument helps a political speech, and it is often the only part of the speech which is remembered. I have often heard people say to me: ”I heard you speak thirty, forty, or fifty years ago, and this is the story you told.” Sometimes, however, the story may prove a boomerang in the most unexpected way.
For many years, when I spoke in northern New York I was always met at the Syracuse station by a superintendent of the Lackawanna Railroad with a special train filled with friends. He carried me up to my destination and brought me back in the morning. It was his great day of the year, and during the trip he was full of reminiscences, and mainly of the confidences reposed in him by the president of the road, my old and valued friend, Samuel Sloan.
One fall he failed to appear, and there was no special train to meet me. I was told by friends that the reason was his wife had died and he was in mourning. The morning after the meeting I started to call upon him, but was informed that he was very hostile and would not see me. I was not going to lose an old friend like that and went up to his office. As soon as I entered, he said: ”Go away, I don't want to see you again.” I appealed to him, saying: ”I cannot lose so good a friend as you. If there is anything I have done or said, I will do everything in my power to make it right.” He turned on me sharply and with great emotion told this story: ”My wife and I lived in loving harmony for over thirty years, and when she died recently I was heartbroken. The whole town was sympathetic; most of the business houses closed during the hour of the funeral. I had arranged to have ministers whom my wife admired, and with them selected pa.s.sages of scriptures and hymns to which she was devoted. A new minister in town was invited by the others to partic.i.p.ate, and without my knowledge.
I looked over the congregation, all Mary's friends. I listened to the services, which Mary herself would have chosen, and said to Mary's spirit, which I knew to be hovering about: 'We are all paying you a loving tribute.' Then the new minister had for his part the announcement and reading of a hymn. At the last Republican convention at Saratoga, in order to ill.u.s.trate the condition of the Democratic party, you told a story about a boy walking among the children's graves in the old cemetery at Peekskill, eating green apples and whistling 'Nearer, my G.o.d, to Thee.' The new minister gave that hymn, 'Nearer, my G.o.d, to Thee.' Your story came up in my mind, and I burst out laughing. I disgraced myself, insulted the memory of Mary, and I never want to see you again.”
XXI. NATIONAL REPUBLICAN CONVENTIONS
When the Republican convention met in 1912 I was again a delegate.
In my fifty-six years of national conventions I never had such an intensely disagreeable experience. I felt it my duty to support President Taft for renomination. I thought he had earned it by his excellent administration. I had many ties with him, beginning with our a.s.sociations as graduates of Yale, and held for him a most cordial regard. I was swayed by my old and unabated love for Roosevelt. In that compromise and harmony were impossible.
I saw that, with the control of the organization and of the convention on the side of Mr. Taft, and with the wild support for Roosevelt of the delegates from the States which could be relied upon to give Republican majorities, the nomination of either would be sure defeat.
I was again a delegate to the Republican convention of 1916.
The party was united. Progressives and conservatives were acting together, and the convention was in the happiest of moods. It was generally understood that Justice Hughes would be nominated if he could be induced to resign from the Supreme Court and accept.
The presiding officer of the convention was Senator Warren G. Harding.
He made a very acceptable keynote speech. His fine appearance, his fairness, justice, and good temper as presiding officer captured the convention. There was a universal sentiment that if Hughes declined the party could do no better than to nominate Senator Harding. It was this impression among the delegates, many of whom were also members of the convention of 1920, which led to the selection as the convention's candidate for president of Warren G. Harding.
My good mother was a Presbyterian and a good Calvinist. She believed and impressed upon me the certainty of special Providence.
It is hard for a Republican to think that the election of Woodrow Wilson was a special Providence, but if our candidate, Mr. Hughes, had been elected he would have had a hostile Democratic majority in Congress.
When the United States went into the war, as it must have done, the president would have been handicapped by this pacifist Congress.
The draft would have been refused, without which our army of four millions could not have been raised. The autocratic measures necessary for the conduct of the war would have been denied.
With the conflict between the executive and Congress, our position would have been impossible and indefensible.
I had a personal experience in the convention. Chairman Harding sent one of the secretaries to me with a message that there was an interval of about an hour when the convention would have nothing to do. It was during such a period the crank had his opportunity and the situation was dangerous, and he wished me to come to the platform and fill as much of that hour as possible. I refused on the ground that I was wholly unprepared, and it would be madness to attempt to speak to fourteen thousand people in the hall and a hundred million outside.
A few minutes afterwards Governor Whitman, chairman of the New York delegation, came to me and said: ”You must be drafted. The chairman will create some business to give you fifteen minutes to think up your speech.” I spurred my gray matter as never before, and was then introduced and spoke for forty-five minutes. I was past eighty-two. The speech was a success, but when I returned to my seat I remembered what General Garfield had so earnestly said to me: ”You are the only man of national reputation who will speak without preparation. Unless you peremptorily and decisively stop yielding you will some day make such a failure as to destroy the reputation of a lifetime.”
In a letter President Harding has this to say in reference to the occasion: ”Just about a year ago (1916) it was my privilege as chairman of the Republican convention at Chicago to call upon you for an address. There was a hiatus which called for a speech, and you so wonderfully met the difficult requirements that I sat in fascinated admiration and have been ready ever since to pay you unstinted tribute. You were ever eloquent in your more active years, but I count you the old man eloquent and incomparable in your eighties. May many more helpful and happy years be yours.”
I was again a delegate to the convention in June, 1920. The Republicans had been for eight years out of office during Mr. Wilson's two terms. The delegates were exceedingly anxious to make no mistake and have no friction in the campaign.
The two leading candidates, General Wood and Governor Lowden, had nearly equal strength and were supported by most enthusiastic admirers and advocates. As the balloting continued the rivalry and feeling grew between their friends. It became necessary to harmonize the situation and it was generally believed that this could be best done by selecting Senator Warren G. Harding.
Very few conventions have a dramatic surprise, but the nomination of Governor Coolidge, of Ma.s.sachusetts, for vice-president came about in a very picturesque way. He had been named for president among the others, and the speech in his behalf by Speaker Frederick H. Gillett was an excellent one. Somehow the convention did not seem to grasp all that the governor stood for and how strong he was with each delegate. When the nominations for vice-president were called for, Senator Medill McCormick presented Senator Lenroot, of Wisconsin, in an excellent speech. There were also very good addresses on behalf of the Governor of Kansas and others.
When the balloting was about to start, a delegate from Oregon who was in the rear of the hall arose and said: ”Mr. Chairman.”
The chairman said: ”The gentleman from Oregon.” The Oregon delegate, in a far-reaching voice, shouted: ”Mr. Chairman, I nominate for vice-president Calvin Coolidge, a one-hundred-per-cent American.” The convention went off its feet with a whoop and Coolidge was nominated hands down.
I again had a personal experience. The committee on resolutions, not being prepared to report, there was that interval of no business which is the despair of presiding officers of conventions.
The crowd suddenly began calling for me. While, of course, I had thought much on the subject, I had not expected to be called upon and had no prepared speech. Happily, fifteen thousand faces and fifteen thousand voices giving uproarious welcome both steadied and inspired me. Though I was past eighty-six years of age, my voice was in as good condition as at forty, and was practically the only one which did fill that vast auditorium. The press of the country featured the effort next day in a way which was most gratifying.